Winter arrived.
Yesterday, there had still been a drizzling rain. This morning, the entire valley was blanketed in a layer of white as thick as a finger. The air had transformed—from ordinary cold to a bone-piercing chill that crept into the gaps in armor, between fingers, deep into the lungs.
Albert stood at the edge of the river, its banks beginning to freeze, his breath rising in thick clouds. Behind him, the troops' tents were dusted with a thin layer of snow. Soldiers huddled around campfires, shivering, grumbling.
Two weeks since the last battle. Two weeks since the duel with Sir Aldric. Two weeks of his ribs slowly knitting back together, the wound at his side beginning to close. And throughout all that time, one piece of news they'd been waiting for: the enemy had retreated to their winter quarters. The war was postponed until the snow melted.
"Winter," he murmured to himself.
In his previous life, winter in Ukraine had been another kind of nightmare. Frozen trenches, fingers freezing on rifle triggers, comrades dying from cold at guard posts.
But here, in this world, winter was an opportunity. Time to recover, to train soldiers, and—most importantly—to make them stronger.
From behind the tent, Luise's voice. "My Lord, here's your breakfast."
Albert turned. Luise stood there with a steaming bowl in her hands, a thick cloak wrapped around her. On her shoulders, snow was beginning to accumulate.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat." Her voice was flat, but her violet eyes carried something unyielding, something that brooked no argument. "Gerit said you're still recovering, so you have to eat even if you don't feel like it."
Albert nearly smiled. Luise, the only subordinate who dared to order him around. He took the bowl. Grain porridge with bits of smoked meat, warm, filling.
"Thank you."
They ate in silence, standing at the river's edge, watching the water flow slowly between patches of forming ice.
"The troops?" Albert asked between bites.
"Restless. Winter makes them bored and afraid of getting sick." Luise shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
"You know what I used to do during winter?"
Luise looked at him, curious.
"I'd plunge them into ice water."
The spoon in Luise's hand stopped halfway to her mouth. "What?"
***
An hour later, the entire force gathered at the riverbank.
Over two hundred soldiers—men-at-arms, levies, archers—stood in irregular clusters, shivering, whispering among themselves. Before them, Albert stood in a thin linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, wearing neither cloak nor coat.
Beside him, a large hole had been cut in the river ice, dark water flowing slowly beneath.
Klaus, that large Valeran man, furrowed his brow. "My Lord, what is this?"
"Winter training." Albert's voice carried clearly through the frozen air. "You're going to learn how to survive in cold temperatures."
A levy—Lukas, the one who'd almost run during the first battle—asked hesitantly, "What kind of training, My Lord?"
Albert pointed at the hole in the ice. "You'll get into that water for thirty seconds, then get out."
Stunned silence. The soldiers exchanged glances. A man-at-arms laughed—a nervous, disbelieving laugh.
"This is a joke, right?"
"No."
Hilda, standing in the front row of archers, raised an eyebrow. "My Lord, that water is freezing. Getting in there could—"
"Kill you?" Albert interrupted. "No, if you know how to do it properly." He looked at each of them in turn. "On the battlefield, you might fall into a frozen river. You might lose your tent in a blizzard. You could survive in freezing temperatures without fire, without blankets, for hours—if you're trained for it."
They stood silent, uncertain.
Albert turned, removing his shirt. His body was pale in the winter sunlight—scars here and there, bandages at his waist, ribs beginning to heal. He walked to the edge of the hole, without hesitation, and jumped in.
Spray froze in the air. Albert submerged into that dark water, sank for a moment, then surfaced. His breath caught—not a scream, but a reflexive gasp that couldn't be suppressed. His face flushed, eyes narrowed.
One second. Two seconds. Three...
The soldiers watched with wide eyes. A few of the female archers covered their mouths. Klaus muttered under his breath, "He's insane."
Twenty seconds. Albert's face began to pale, his lips turning blue. But he stayed there, hands gripping the ice edge, his body moving—not thrashing, but small movements, like treading water.
Twenty-five. Twenty-eight. Thirty.
Albert pulled himself from the water, crawling onto the ice. His body shook violently, teeth chattering loudly. He sat at the edge, breath ragged, and began to move.
Not running, not jumping. But movements—swinging his arms, slapping his thighs, moving his entire body rapidly, intensely. Strange, unusual motions. But after a few moments, color began returning to his skin. His breathing steadied.
He stood, still shivering, but able to speak.
"That's... how it's done." His voice trembled from the cold. "You go in, don't panic. Move in the water—small movements, continuous. When you get out, don't stand still. Move your body, force the blood to flow."
Klaus stared at him, mouth open.
"You're serious we have to do that?" a levy asked.
"Yes. One by one, starting with the bravest."
No one moved. Albert looked at them, his eyes still red from the cold but unwavering.
"I've done it. Now it's your turn. Or are you more afraid of water than the enemy?"
That worked. Klaus grumbled, then began removing his armor. "I'll do it!"
He went into the water. Came out thirty seconds later with chattering jaw, pale face, but alive. Then Lukas, that young levy. Then Hilda, expressionless, went in. Then one by one, the soldiers followed.
Shouts, curses, howls of pain filled the riverbank. But no one died, no one fainted. And when the last one emerged, shivering violently, Albert gave the order.
Not everyone could last thirty seconds—most only managed ten and nearly died.
"Now, run! Run until your bodies are warm, run until you stop shivering."
They ran. Circling the encampment, over and over, under the snow that began falling again. The other soldiers—those not participating in the training—watched with a mix of amusement, horror, and admiration.
Albert sat near a campfire, a thick cloak wrapped around him. Luise sat beside him, silent, but her eyes kept watching the running soldiers.
"This reminds me," she said quietly, "my grandfather once said the best soldiers aren't the strongest. They're the ones who can endure the most physical and mental pressure."
"Sir Gregor deserves to be called a wise man."
"He also said your training methods are strange. But effective."
Albert almost smiled. "Thank you... I think."
***
The following days became a new routine.
Morning: physical training in the snow—running, push-ups, movements Albert remembered from his previous life. Circuit training, he called it, though no one understood the term.
Afternoon: combat drills, formation practice, hand signals. But not as intense as before the war—they needed recovery time.
Evening: free time. And it was during this free time that Albert learned something he hadn't planned on.
Fishing.
It started accidentally. An old levy—Gerold was his name, in his fifties, with thin white hair and gap-toothed smile—sat by the river every evening with a simple fishing rod made from a branch and string. He'd sit for hours, sometimes catching fish, sometimes not. But he always sat there, calm, as if part of the scenery.
Albert watched him from a distance. Gerold's movements while fishing—slow, patient, unhurried—reminded him of something.
His father in another world. Sunday mornings, fishing at the reservoir near home with uncle. Sitting for hours, sometimes catching fish, sometimes not. But he always smiled when Dilan asked, "Catch anything?"
One evening, Albert sat down beside Gerold.
"Can I learn?"
Gerold turned, his old eyes squinting. "My Lord wants to learn fishing?"
"Yes."
Without much discussion, Gerold handed him a fishing rod—a flexible branch, string from plant fiber, a hook carved from bone. "Bait's here." He pointed to a small container with earthworms.
Albert took the bait, put it on the hook. His movements were stiff, unpracticed.
"Cast over there." Gerold pointed to a spot in the river, behind a large rock. "Current's slow there, fish like to gather."
Albert cast, his line landing too close. Gerold said nothing, just smiled faintly.
They sat in silence. An hour. Two hours. No fish bit the bait.
"Aren't you bored?" Albert finally asked.
Gerold shrugged. "Fishing isn't about being bored or not. It's about... waiting. Sometimes you catch, sometimes you don't. But as long as you're sitting here, you're not thinking about other things. Just the water, the line, and possibility."
Albert pondered those words. Water, line, and possibility. Wasn't that life? Waiting for something to happen, hoping, yet remaining calm when nothing happened.
"Where did you learn to fish?" he asked.
"My father taught me." Gerold smiled—a memory. "Back then, every Sunday morning, we'd go to the small stream behind the village. He'd bring bread and cheese, I'd bring my fishing rod. Sometimes we caught fish, sometimes not. But the important thing... we sat together."
Albert fell silent. In his head, another voice echoed. His father's voice—his father on Earth—who always said, "Is catching fish really that important, son? The important thing is our quality time together."
He nearly laughed. But the laugh turned into something else. Something wet at the corner of his eyes.
"Want to talk about it?" Gerold asked softly.
Albert shook his head. "Not a story that can be told."
Gerold nodded, not pressing. They sat in silence again.
That day, Albert caught no fish. But when he returned to his tent, there was something different in his chest. Not warmth—but something close to it, like memories that no longer hurt, just... existed.
The next day, he sat beside Gerold again. The day after that, again. And the day after that.
On the fifth day, he caught his first fish. A small one, the size of his palm, flopping at the end of his line.
"I caught one!" he exclaimed, unconsciously, like a child.
Gerold laughed—an old, crackling laugh. "That's your first fish. It'll taste different."
Albert stared at the fish. In his eyes, it wasn't just a fish, but something more. Proof that waiting wasn't futile. That patience bore fruit. That even in the midst of war and winter, there were still simple things to enjoy.
That night, the fish was cooked over the campfire. Albert shared it with Gerold and Luise. Just a little, just half a handful of thin flesh. But its taste...
Luise chewed slowly. "This is good."
"My Lord's first fish," Gerold said proudly.
Luise looked at Albert, curiosity in her eyes. "My Lord has never fished before?"
"No." Albert stared at the fire. "But my father... in the past... liked fishing. I just... sat with him. Never seriously learned."
"Why now?"
Albert thought. Why now? Because Gerold reminded him of his father.
"I want to remember," he finally said. "Not forget."
Luise didn't ask further.
***
Two weeks passed. The snow grew thicker. The river froze harder. But every evening, if weather permitted, Albert sat by the river with Gerold.
They didn't talk much. Just sat, fished, sometimes caught fish, sometimes not. But in those moments, Albert felt... almost normal.
At night, he'd return to his tent, light a feltwort cigarette, and write letters to Alena.
I'm learning to fish from an old levy named Gerold. The first fish I caught was the size of my palm. We cooked it over the campfire. It tasted good. Luise said it was good, Gerold smiled proudly.
My father used to like fishing. Every Sunday morning, he'd take me to the reservoir near our house. I hated waking up early, but I always went. Not because I liked fish, but because I liked sitting quietly beside him. Sometimes we didn't talk at all. Just sat, watching the water, waiting.
Now I understand why he loved it. Not because of the fish. But because when you're fishing, the world stops. No work, no problems, no war. Just water, line, and the person beside you.
I miss my father, Alena. But maybe, by sitting here, I can feel close to him again.
Take care of yourself.
-Albert
He folded the letter, set it aside to be sent tomorrow. Outside, snow fell heavily. The campfires in the encampment began to dim. Soldiers slept in their tents, dreaming of home, of family, of things they missed.
Albert stubbed out his feltwort, lying down on his simple bed.
"Good night, Dad," he whispered into the cold air. "I still remember you."
No answer. Only the howl of wind outside the tent.